


More Free Time than Good Sense II: Electric Boogaloo

by maypop



Category: Homestuck
Genre: :(, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/pseuds/maypop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lu2ef6XOTl1r2qpyoo1_500.png happened, and so, necessarily, did sexxxxxxxxy fic of Lord English. TW for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Free Time than Good Sense II: Electric Boogaloo

Your name is LORD ENGLISH and there is an UNIMPRESSIVE BLOND GODCHILD currently assuring you that you are AT LEAST HIS THIRD FAVORITE MAHOU SHOUJO.

You are going to EAT HIM AND HIS UNIVERSE.

Not because you are MIFFED at being outdone by IRON MAN, who did after all do it IN A CAVE WITH A BOX OF SCRAPS. You are merely a UNIVERSAVORE, regardless of any GENIUS BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY PHILANTHROPISTS.

You are going to ABANDON THIS NARRATIVE CONVENTION. In paradox space, there are no askboxes, and even the pretense of taking orders galls you like a fjord between your molars.

Like OBNOXIOUS BLOND GODCHILDREN. Or FORGETTING YOU ABANDONED THIS JOKE. You despise callbacks, given the cyclical nature of time and the staggering boredom of omniscience, so any comments about your memory’s faultiness resulting from being a metaphorically multitasking blacksmith would be at this juncture exactly as funny as those people who pronounce their red circle department store tarzhay.

The definition of a god is one who has successfully gamed the system. You suppose you ought to listen to the blatherer until it is time to consume all that he is and ever has known.

“—be one of those people who puts their boner before the revolutionary cause—help help Ivan the Germans are coming and Stalin didn’t clear me for undies—but are there like Lady Englishes or what.”

That is silly. Your reproductive methods are neither so simple (one, two, three dimensions, that’s all?) nor so complicated (she likes him but he likes her but she doesn’t like anyone but the drones are coming but—) as the squalid mess of sexual reproduction. That sort of thing occupies entirely too much of the old thinkpan. Honestly, it is a blight on the fandom.

You tell him so. Your exact words will not be duplicated, as html is LIKE HARD OR SOMETHING.

Dammit, you were going to _stop that_. You will not be a figure of f—

“I just ask because that I mean someone is seriously wang chunging it tonight in the unnecessarily tighty whities and is this like one of those ‘no, mr Batman, I have to rub my tetas like this for a completely legit narrative purpose’—”

You are omniscient. You do not have to be omniscient to be aware that Dave Strider will not shut up until someone shuts him up.

“—things, or is that chekov’s nads I can see in really, jegus, really unnecessary details, I am so not that kind of boy—”

You inform the boy your species—if it can be so called with only one example existing—most closely resembles the nobly efficient bacteriophage.

“Wow rude.”

You inform the boy that manipulating the dna of a host until it suits your specifications and can be induced to bear a copy of the infecting agent is a gross oversimplification and inaccurate in all respects and yet conveys enough of the gist that his mind, already faltering under the weight of assumed deity, can encompass it.

“Man I knew you were like a staggering creepmachine just stamping out creep after creep in your creepdies but—”

You inform the boy of the nature of tautology.

“I think you are using that word wr—”

As the boy who this is about to happen to, he is definitionally that kind of boy. You remove the inadequate trousers.

Perhaps one callback won’t hurt.

 _Hee hee hee. Hoo hoo._

 _Hee hee._


End file.
